Guns and Roses
by blackdiamondskies
Summary: Victorian era AU. Dark is a wandering thief who feels he has nothing left to live for ... until he meets a shut-in nobleman who just may be the light to the darkness he's been longing for. Both of them are sick in their hearts and minds, but the love Dark has to give may just be the perfect medicine. Dark/Krad
1. Chapter 1

**I got this idea after reading something else . . .

* * *

**

○I○

Krad Hikari bent low towards the piano as he gently moved his long, tapered fingers over the ivory keys, playing a slow, dark piece. It was as dark and gloomy as the room surrounding him; yet so full of emotion that Krad himself felt suffocated by it, and was therefore forced into the straight-backed posture of before so as not to be overwhelmed by it. His fingers let up some of their intensity, and his hands instead ghosted over the keys, playing softer then before. Choosing not to watch his hands, Krad instead turned his pallid face towards the ceiling, where a single grimy, cobwebby skylight let in a narrow beam of moonlight through years of filth and decay. In a sort of melancholy way, Krad moved his head slightly to the left, so the narrow knife of light fell on his face, making his sunken features light up in a way that did not become the golden-haired recluse. Sighing ever-so-softly, Krad returned his attention to what he was doing, leaving the striking light for the ever comforting presence of the darkness around him. It's where he belonged, after all . . . forever more in darkness would he reside. It was his punishment. It was his destiny. To be an angel of shadows . . . 

Krad reached the climax of his piece, his digits unconsciously regaining their zealousness as he concentrated hard on making that piano-forte sing . . . just as his mother did, that long, long age ago. . .

In his empty passion, Krad did not realize that he had an uninvited audience attending his performance, standing on the top landing of the stairs and leaning on the railing with arms crossed over a wide, toned chest. Deep, narrow amethyst eyes watched closely, yet at the same time detachedly, as the long-haired blonde played his symphony-for-one, noticing in particular as the moonlight played off the musician's sun-gold hair and pale, white skin. It almost made him seem angelic in countenance; yet, as the intruder noticed, this angel seemed quite at home in the shadowy darkness, indicating that perhaps he wasn't as wholly _holy_ as he seemed.

Krad's climax decrescendo'd into a soft ending in the upper octaves of the piano, creating a hollow, empty, and thoroughly eerie sound as the high-pitched notes echoed around the room, the sound waves bouncing off the barren walls of the Hikari estate. The figure, entranced by the utter sadness and emptiness of the house and it's owner, slowly pushed off from the railing and quietly started descending the stairs, his footsteps muffled by years of dust.

Krad gently struck the last chord; his fingers remained pressed on the keys, and he just listened as the old, tired mansion embraced his notes, and let them play about it's empty halls before they slowly lost their energy and faded away . . .

Only when the sounds had completely disappeared did Krad allow his fingers to leave the soft ivory, and drift to rest in his lap. He started contemplating about what he could play next, when suddenly loud, sharp clapping could be heard, coming from behind him.

To say Krad was startled was an understatement; he jumped up in alarm, upsetting the bench in his shock as he spun around to face the shadowy darkness of the entrance hall.

"Who is there?" As startled as he was, not a single drop of emotion slipped through his walls, creating the illusion of Krad being very indifferent about the situation. A seasoned people-reader, such as our stranger, however—needed but look in the shadow-angel's eyes in order to tell what is going on in their depths. Krad's eyes were currently shifting back and forth in a fast pace, searching out the person who dare intrude on his solitude.

The clapping stopped, and finally a violet-haired, grinning man stepped out of the shadows of the grand staircase, narrow amethyst eyes glinting amusedly at the blonde, who stared coolly back.

He stopped within three feet of the fair-haired musician, both of their eyes having a duel against each other, until Krad could no longer stand any more nonsense:

"_Who_ _are_ _you?_" He again asked, lowering the temperature of his stare a few degrees. The man stared regally back, not backing down on Krad's subconscious challenge. Krad, seeing that his glare had no effect, added, "_What_ do you think you're doing in my house, trespasser?"

The wine-haired intruder stuffed his hands in his pockets, and, ignoring Krad's demand, started walking around the room.

"What a lovely house the Hikari estate is . . . though I'm afraid the housekeeper has been shirking her duties . . ."

The man had reached the staircase once again, and with disdain he ran his fingers along the dusty banister, inspecting the grimy residue left there.

Krad was infuriated. Who was this man to come barging in here and parade around as if he were the owner of the estate? Who did he think he was? A Hikari?

'_Whoever_ _he is, he is going to be dead in a few seconds,' _thought Krad.

And so, while the violet haired man was busy complaining about the housekeeping, Krad crept towards a side-table drawer on the left side of the room inconspicuously, being sure to keep an eye on the intruder. Who was, meanwhile, examining one of the many Hikari paintings on the wall, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the grime on the surface.

The young Hikari, upon reaching his destination, slowly and silently opened the top drawer, rummaging around in the contents to find what he needed. Keeping an eye on the trespasser still, his long digits finally came in contact with stone-cold metal, and he pulled out the .32 millimeter pistol he had been seeking, smirking in triumph.

Still examining the portrait, the plum-haired man froze as he heard the unmistakable 'chak!' of a gun being cocked.

Gulping, he slowly turned around, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. The angelic blonde held the weapon right up to the man's temple, putting too much pressure on the trigger for the trespasser to be comfortable.

The man was horrified. _'How could he have gotten so close to me without my hearing his movements? Surely ears such as mine could have picked up even the slightest rustling of his clothing—but I heard nothing!'_

Krad grinned manically; he had this cur right where he wanted him!

"Now then, _perhaps_ I can get some answers from you! And it would be in your best interest to answer me," he advised pointedly.

The theif-man unconsciously shuddered.

"Begin with the proper introductions, if you please," Krad commanded smoothly, lightly pushing at the man's head with the revolver in an effort to make him answer quickly.

The man, eyeing the gun nervously, responded immediately. "I am Dark Mousey . . ."

Krad's eyes widened immensely as he recognized the name. "Dark Mousey, the infamous thief? You are in all the newspapers!"

Despite his current situation, Dark let a small sliver of pride slip through his fear, "You have't right, sir; soon to be the most celebrated thief in all of history!"

He was quickly brought back into place as he got a rather painful smack with the end of the blonde's weapon.

"Silence! Don't speak unless spoken to, knave," Krad spat, glaring menacingly at the thief.

Dark did not hesitate to follow orders.

Continuing, Krad asked, "So your purpose here is to steal a work of Hikari art? Or is there something else in this house that you desire?"

Dark, keeping his deep amethyst eyes on the weapon held too close to his head, answered, "The Hikari paintings are famous to art collectors everywhere; I came with the intentions of getting my hands on a few," he answered honestly.

Krad's eyes traveled elsewhere; and for a moment his guard was dropped as memories—_painful_ memories—washed over him briefly, before he tucked them back away in his heart.

But Dark, being trained to notice small details, did not miss the huge amounts of pain and hatred reflected in the blonde's golden-yellow eyes before they became emotionless bullion pools once again.

"Were circumstances different, I would have you take them, take them _all_ away! I hate them and would have them removed directly—if not for that damned will . . ." Krad was speaking of events and things Dark had no knowledge of, but once again he did not miss the hatred and anger spilling from the Hikari's tongue as he said this.

"If . . . I may ask . . . where are the other members of this household; Lord and Lady Hikari? I did not see a single soul but you residing in this house!"

Krad exploded in anger. "Don't you _dare_ talk about them to me, you insolent cur!" He yelled, smashing the barrel of his revolver into the side of Dark's face. The thief was sent flying into the painting behind him, which snapped in half by sheer force of the collision; Dark himself crashed to the floor, his forehead bearing a gash from where the weapon's shaft had come in contact, and a small trickle of blood flowing out from the corner of his mouth.

Grunting in pain, he slowly pushed himself up, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. An enraged Krad was already standing over him, gun still cocked and ready, pointing at Dark's head.

"How dare you breathe a single word about them! You stupid man! I'll murder you!"

Seeing the deranged look in the blonde angel's eyes, Dark started to fear for his life more than he had before; for now his mind could actually wrap itself around this situation, and could see his ultimate demise.

Frightened was an understatement. He was terrified.

"Wait! Don't!—not yet! If I am t-to . . . _die_ . . . I would at least have the name of my murderer . . ."

Dark was stalling, and Krad knew it. However, being brought up in aristocratic ways, he thought it would indeed be rude if he killed a man who didn't even know his slayer's name!

"I am Krad Hikari, eldest son of the late Hikari Senior and heir to the entire Hikari estate," Krad arrogantly stated, raising his head a little in pride.

Not really listening, and panicking about his ever-approaching doom, Dark tried to stall further.

"Why are you living alone in this dreary place?—I mean not to stir you; I am just curious. You who have the entire Hikari fortune at your disposal, choose to remain anchored to a house that no longer has life? It makes no sense." Dark silently prayed that the blonde aristocrat's answer would be drawn-out.

Krad seemed angry at the prying question, but soon settled himself. He was going to kill this man anyway, right? It wouldn't hurt to get the thousand aching secrets off his chest, just this once . . . it might even prove good to his ever-failing health . . .

Dark rejoiced as Krad set himself comfortably on a nearby armchair, the pistol set down on his lap and his sharp golden eyes trained acutely on the thief. He was going to tell a long story after all! And that would give Dark time to think of a plan . . .

Krad glared delicately at Dark. "Let it be known, thief, that if you even so much as blink wrong, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Dark gulped. "Perfectly."

* * *

Krad sighed, and looked down at the revolver in his lap. He fiddled with it nervously, as he began to pour out his heart to the stranger sitting on the floor next to him.

"Lord and Lady Hikari, my mother and father, were not the best parents a young boy ever had; it is little to say, then, that I had not much of a childhood. No, I was a Hikari, and I am sure that no one has ever heard of a 'proper' aristocrat having a happy, normal childhood. It usually consists, as mine did, of two things: Schooling, and the Fine Arts.

"I did not mind my music lessons—it was the only way to get my feelings out in such a tightly aristocratic household. For everyone of high stature knows that frivolous natures and flamboyant romances only belong in the novels they read, or the plays they attend on Sunday evenings," Krad began rigidly, with a hint of bitterness creeping up in his voice. Dark, who had many escape plans running through his head, started loosing his concentration; instead focusing on Krad's interesting tale.

Krad shook his head, and continued. "As for my schooling; I do not care to say much about it, for I have forced myself to forget those horrible times with my tutors long ago. It was said at my birth that I was to be a genius—I don't know if that was true or not back then, but Lord and Lady Hikari decided not to let fate take it's own course. No, they wanted to be sure—they had to drill in all the knowledge under the sun into my head of their own accord, to make me into a genius whether it was my destiny or not."

Absent-mindedly, Krad pulled his long blonde ponytail over his shoulder and started to braid small sections of it, being sure to take them out when he finished with them.

"My parents themselves were wonderful artists—they were always painting in the art room when I had my lessons. Of course as everyone knows, we descend from a long line of artists, so it only made sense that my parents were also of that nature, and also that I would be one after them."

At this, Krad laughed hollowly. "Except there was one minor complication; one minor fluke in the majestic Hikari clan . . . _**me.**_"

Dark, long since forgetting his perilous situation, asked confusedly, "You? What was wrong with you?"

Krad's twin, fiery suns stared directly into Dark's twilight-colored eyes, burning them with their intensity.

"Simply this: I could not paint," he stated hardly, hatred blazing in his eyes. Hatred not at his parents, nor Dark; but a hatred for himself. "I could not paint, nor draw, nor engrave, nor sculpt—I could not even sketch the simple daisy, lying contentedly in it's vase! I was completely hopeless at prose, and ghastly at poetry. And that, my thieving friend, is as good as a death sentence in the Hikari family."

Dark was astounded. "Really? Your family hated you just because you couldn't _draw?_ That seems highly cruel and unusual."

Krad gave another hollow laugh. "_You _. . . have no idea."

The violet-haired thief shuddered. "Something tells me that the lack of such and idea is not a bad thing."

Krad nearly ripped out the braid he had been working on, and threw his hair back over his shoulder in rising ill-temperedness. "Precisely my point. If I didn't want to suddenly find myself destitute on the streets, I had to find one of the Arts I was capable in—surely it comes as no surprise to you that I chose music as my profession, seeing as you barged in as I was practicing." Here, Krad pointed a delicate digit at his beloved Grand piano.

Dark nodded sheepishly, grinning awkwardly. "Indeed," he confirmed apologetically, rubbing the back of his head with a nervous hand. "You play beautifully," he added as an afterthought.

Krad delicately rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I didn't start out that way, let me tell you. As with everything else in my life, I was mediocre, and rarely impressed my teacher, let alone Mother or Father."

Here was another rare occasion when Krad's emotion's built up to a point where he couldn't breathe, and he broke his emotionless façade to relieve some of the pressure.

He sighed miserably. "Father was never pleased with anything I did, despite my efforts. I did try so hard to satisfy him . . ." Pausing briefly to sigh again, he continued. "Thus I worked harder than ever at my music lessons, spending every day and night of my childhood right here, seated on this bench. . ."

He patted the old, creaky piano bench with a loving hand, and Dark could see both adoration and hatred swimming through the other's bullion pools. "Soon I had mastered all my books—Mozart, Beethoven, Bach—I could do them all, some even without any music! It became apparent to me then, after my eleventh year, that my skills had surpassed those of the music master; thus I dismissed him, and started working on the art of composing."

Dark was astounded. "That beautiful piece you were playing before . . . it was of _your_ composition!"

Krad nodded unenthusiastically. "Indeed it was. One of my latest." He sighed again.

Dark cocked his head in confusion. "You've just uttered to me a deed of great self-importance, yet you did 't so melancholy that one would suspect that the very thing wounds you! Why does this talent bring you down so?"

Krad tilted his head to look at the ceiling. "I am glad that _you_ think me of use, but the same could not be said of the late Lord Hikari. He never much cared for music-making, thinking it the lowest of the art forms. He thought _me_ a failure, but always doted upon _Satoshi-sama_ . . ." Krad paused, staring hatefully at a cracking ceiling tile as if trying to make it come down with just the fire in his eyes. Dark, slightly confused at the turn of the conversation, asked:

"This . . . Satoshi-sama . . . would be whom?"

Krad shifted his glare to the dark-haired thief before him. "Satoshi-sama . . . was my _dearest,_ effeminate little brother . . . and the apple of my father's eye . . ." Krad ground out hardly, clenching his fists tightly. Dark was slightly intimidated by this show of maliciousness.

"I take it you have no love for your brother. When your parents died—reaching this conclusion only on how you call them the _late_ Hikari elders—did you banish your brother from this place—seeing as you're the eldest, thus receiving the inheritance, and the fact that he does not reside in this place?"

"My brother is dead."

Dark quickly turned his choke into a small coughing fit. "I-I'm sorry."

Krad's eyes narrowed. "It doesn't matter to me. He was _everything_ to my parents, and I was _nothing._ He could do it all—sketch, draw, paint—and he was quite the poet, as well. To my Father, Satoshi was all I _wouldn't_ be. He often said to me, 'Observe your brother, Krad, for the Hikari blood runs thicker in _his _veins than in any other who bear that name.' He always said how proud he was of Satoshi-sama, and how ashamed he was of me . . . I am sure Lord Hikari would have renounced my birthright as heir of the Hikari Estate if he'd have lived long enough to do so," Krad spat. Now extremely ill-tempered and feeling great fatigue, Krad wanted this tedious conversation to be done with, and this intruder to disappear.

"I've had enough of this conversation. It is time to dispose of you, thief," Krad hissed, and seized his weapon once again. Dark set into panic, and jumped up from his spot on the floor.

"What! You are still going to kill me, after all this!" He didn't have an escape plan, and the demonic angel was approaching ever nearer to him, gun cocked.

"Of course, you stupid fool! What, you thought you could distract me by asking my life story? Do you think I am that ignorant? I knew your plan all along—I humored you merely for my own devices and most assuredly not for yours!" He shouted angrily, advancing on the terrified thief and backing him straight into a nearby wall.

As Dark looked on nervously, Krad suddenly broke into maniacal laughter. "Oh yes, I nearly forgot—I've still the end of the story to tell! You want to know how my family died?"

Resting the barrel of the gun on Dark's temple, Krad leaned in towards the brunette's ear, and whispered, _"I murdered them. Every. Single. One."_

Krad stood straight again, and laughed hysterically, clutching his stomach with his free hand. "Every last one!" He shouted happily, like a child in the innocence of youth, finding presents from Father Christmas under a regally-decorated tree . . . only he was not a child, and his merry disposition came from the thought of a bloody deed in the past done. A monstrous deed, indeed.

Dark gasped loudly, his eyes widening in horror. His body became ridged, and his entire world shrank to just the two of them; the homicidal blonde and the soon-to-be-dead thief, both of their fates intertwined by a single thread that was about to be cut. Cut off from the world forever, just as the other Hikari's' lives had been, by this angelic monster before him. Cut off, just as his life would be in a mere breath . . .

And yet, a question—one single question, chanting and chanting repeatedly in his head, overriding all his systems and feelings, bubbling up like crude from the denseness of his shock, spilling from his mouth as one simple word, whispered on an shaky exhale, "Why?"

So soft, yet Krad heard it anyway. "Why? Why what? Why did I kill them?"

Dark just stared wide-eyed before him, chanting "Why?" over and over again; mirroring his disassembled thoughts.

"For everything! For my lost childhood, spent trying to accomplish a task that was impossible—to make my father proud of me! For years of abuse from my tutors, which my parents did nothing to halt! For every second they ever spent lavishing my little brother with gifts, whilst I was cold and alone in the empty entrance hall, working my fingers to the bone on the clavichord, trying to be someone I very damned well wasn't!—just to please people who had never loved me, nor thought of me as their kin! Why did I kill them? NO! The question is, WHY SHOULDN'T I HAVE?!"

The blonde was hysterical, and the increasing pressure on his skull with the revolver told Dark it was about to come to a violent crescendo.

Suddenly, Krad smiled unsettlingly, and slowly moved the barrel of the revolver to point exactly between Dark's frightened eyes.

"The question is, why shouldn't I kill _you_?" And here, he slowly put pressure on the trigger, drawing out the tenseness for as long as possible, before whispering, "The answer to that, my friend, is death!—and I hope you are prepared for the here-after, man, for not even heaven itself can make me hold!"

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

**Review. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Enjoy this next chapter; there originally wasn't going to be any more. So review and tell me how happy you are!

* * *

**

○II○ 

Dark's heart leapt out of his mouth, and he shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the pain to strike him. Several moments drifted by, filled with the sound of ragged breathing—Krad's gasps full of anger, Dark's of fear—and then the thief tentatively opened one eye.

_Nothing had happened . . .?  
_  
He opened the other eye, and looked down hesitantly. Nay, not a scratch on him; no blood spilling from any mortal wound, no little round holes in his flesh at all. _He was still alive. _

What in god's name—?

Now utterly confused, his gaze snapped up to meet similarly bewildered bullion eyes, which stared widely and franticly at the gun, as if begging the weapon to suddenly fire. It was at that moment that comprehension bloomed in those stormy amethyst orbs—_the gun hadn't fired_, and Krad was too much in shock to make a move.

Thus, Dark _did._

Knocking the revolver out of the aristocrat's hands, he reached over and grasped Krad's white-clad shoulders tightly. Using all the strength he could muster, he flipped Krad around so that _he_ was the one pressed up against the wall, and _Dark_ the one hanging threateningly above him.

Dark knew the blonde's paralysis would not last much longer, so quickly he searched for a means to hold him there . . . his eyes widened. _Ah! —the stair's railing lay just above our heads . . . so if I . . ._

Quickly fumbling to undo the top button of his frayed coat, Dark reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a pair of rusty metal handcuffs; a "gift" from the police . . . undoing them, he clamped one end firmly onto the blonde's wrist.

Krad, his shock now subsiding into a terrible panic, ripped his hand away from the thief's grasp and started struggling fiercely.

"Let go of me!—_Ah!_ What are you doing? _Stop it!!_" He demanded fiercely, and he started shaking his hand violently in an attempt to slip out of the cold metal ring adorning his wrist. Dark meanwhile was grunting in an effort to both keep the blonde pinned to the stairwell _and_ catch hold of Krad's flying hands—but his efforts only ended with a smashed nose, when one of the said limbs crashed into his face painfully.

"Ouch—!"

Krad, upon hearing through his struggles Dark's exclamation of pain, began a fresh torrent of violence upon the thief's head, throwing his fists into the body before him in any place he could reach, trying to cause Dark as much pain as possible so he could escape. Dark, however, merely endured, turning his face away to protect his already-throbbing nose, and blindly continuing his efforts to capture Krad's arms.

His heart thumped loudly in his chest as a grin adorned his face, triumphantly, for he finally caught hold of cool metal—the other ring of the handcuffs!

Grasping the ring firmly, he stepped out of the blonde's way, and Krad stumbled forward awkwardly—utterly startled, if his wide eyes had any say of it—only to have his body jerked backwards by a painful tugging on his wrist. Dark dragged the blonde behind him for a small distance, and then, with a satisfying 'click,' closed the other metal ring around the banister of the stairs.

Krad cried out as he tripped over the hemming of his house-coat, and crashed into the wall behind him. He lay in a shuddering heap on the floor, looking silly with one arm straight up in the air, suspended there by the metal cuff that held it captive.

Dark backed up a few paces, panting heavily and wiping blood from underneath his nose. He stared at the hysterical blonde shivering on the faded crimson carpet, feeling pity for the creature despite his best efforts.

'_Don't be a fool, Mousey; he nearly killed you!'_

But I was a stranger and a thief besides. Is there none who wouldn't have done the same?

'_He's a filthy murderer!'_

Have you forgotten? I can call myself no less.

'_But that was his own family he slew in cold blood, the worst of the ten transgressions!'_

They treated him monstrously . . .

A chill skittered along his spine like a frenzied spider, making the hairs stand up upon his neck. It grew eerily quiet . . . Dark's eyes narrowed as he glanced along the rotted rafters above him, thoughtfully.

The calm before a storm, the eye of a hurricane . . .

Movement in his peripherals made Dark start; Krad was standing up at last, his head bowed and pale face shadowed by many strands of gold, as dull and lifeless as the very atmosphere. . . Dark frowned, and focused his attention directly on the spectacle before him. An altercation was brewing . . .

* * *

Krad stood up slowly, dreadfully—he felt like such a fool, with one arm hanging limply from a metal cuff; the other side closed around a column of the stair banister, binding him to it. Underneath his blonde fringe, he closed his eyes tightly, damning the one who would make him feel this way. 

His suspended hand curled into a fist, and with an incensed determination, Krad tried wrenching his hand free of the restraints. The handcuffs strained to their limit, but held fast.

Dark gave a little sigh, and folded his arms across his chest, watching the blonde pull and pull and pull desperately on the obviously unyielding cuffs. "Do not strain yourself trying to escape—your own flesh and bone would break before those handcuffs would," he said warningly. But Krad bore him no heed—just kept pulling and yanking despairingly, silently appealing to any god that would yet have him for the cuffs to show some sign of weakness, and cave into the pressure being admonished to them.

But they did not; and Krad did not wish to look like any _more_ of a fool by stubbornly fighting a loosing battle. Ceasing his struggle, he raised his head to glare unabashedly into Dark's amethyst eyes.

"Remove them," he demanded simply, gesturing to the hand hanging just by his head. Dark grunted unamusedly.

"No. I'm sorry, but I actually _posses_ a regard towards human life," he spat, forgetting all the pity he had retained earlier for the angelic blonde in his anger. "Especially if it's my _own_," he added. His hands found his hips as he glared at the infuriating presence before him. "I will not just sit around sipping bloody _tea_ while you murder me," he snorted.

Krad stared at Dark dangerously. "I'm sorry, _perhaps_ you didn't _hear_ me."

Dark glared back. "I heard you fine, thank you. But I am no servant, Krad. I will not bow down to your demands like some damned _maid,_" he said tartly, his anger gaining intensity. "I grew up alone on the streets, taking care of myself, and I'll tell you now that the only orders I take are from _me_!!"

Here, Dark turned on his heel and started walking away.

Krad's eyes widened. "Where are you going? Don't you dare leave me like this you, you—!" Something vulgar and inappropriate nearly fell from his lips, but then he remembered his upbringing and started fishing around for something more becoming of an aristocrat to say.

Before he could find the said word, Dark interjected. He was back, carrying the chair Krad had not too long ago occupied. He set it down, and sat regally in it. He said, "I wouldn't. Not everyone in this world is as cruel as you think."

Krad deflated, somewhat miffed—just what did Dark mean by _that_?

The fair-haired musician sighed miserably. _Oh_ but he was tired of all this! He would like nothing better than to retire to his room for the night, and leave this filthy _cur_ dead and gone behind him. If only that gun hadn't jammed . . . this scruffy man would be bathing in his own blood, and Krad would be resting alone and in peace! Forgetting briefly where he was and in who's company, Krad experimentally closed his eyes. Ah, that was better . . .

Dark noticed the aristocrat's fatigue. In fact he was blatantly observing the blonde now, seeing as his eyes were closed—viewing that which the darkness had hidden from him earlier.

Krad was a strange man, Dark decided; yet he could not figure if there was any good in such a characteristic. Krad's golden hair was a longer length than Dark had ever seen before; even on a _lady;_ approaching near to the ground—yet, it was bemusing for Dark to see how well it actually suited him. While none of the silky gold strands were dead-looking, they seemed to lack the certain luster of good heath that they would have had if Krad had been any other person but himself. In fact, Krad's hair was downright dull (and not to mention greased from unwashing), pulled back carelessly into a thick yellow mass at the back of the aristocrat's head. What was most peculiar about it, however, was the large metal crucifix bound to the end, looking large enough to be quite a strain on the blonde's head. But it seemed not to be so; Krad delicately tossed his head to the side, moving with a practiced ease that made Dark believe the cross to be weightless, or Krad to be stronger than his slight frame suggested.

Then there was the clothing he bore; hardly a befitting attire for a so-called "aristocrat," Dark thought. Hanging off of Krad's bony shoulders was a threadbare white housecoat, fitting right in with the antediluvian atmosphere surrounding the old, tired house. Underneath he bore a wrinkled, stained blouse and soiled, off-white trousers, with brown slipper shoes half-hanging off his pale feet.

Dark frowned in disapproval. It seemed that in the absence of another human being in the Hikari house, Krad had let himself go, not taking care of his body as a proper noble should. Even Dark, who had never had anyone to look after him, knew the dangers of not maintaining one's personal hygiene. Wherever dirt and grime showed up, illness and disease were sure to follow. He knew that from experience.

'_Ms. Harada. . . .'_

Krad blinked owlishly upon realizing he was being stared at. "What are you gawking at, you filthy thief?!" He demanded angrily, still irked about being strung up like Christmas garlands upon the stairwell.

Dark scoffed throatily. "And where do you get the cheek to call _me_ filthy, when you are more disgusting than most of the urchins I see on the streets every day? Look on your _own_ self, and tell me that you do not agree! When do you recall taking off those clothes last?" He admonished seriously, raising an eyebrow. Krad looked Dark furiously in the eyes, not bothering to do as the thief had brashly ordered—but it mattered not; Dark could see the truth hiding in the shadowed corners of his guarded yellow eyes.

Instead of answering his question, Krad heaved a sigh, and asked one of his own; sounding so utterly worn and spent that pity rekindled itself in Dark's bosom. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Dark was slightly startled at the query. It wasn't an easy one to answer. _Why __**am**__ I doing this? Why did I not just leave when the opportunity had arisen? Why did I instead go through so much trouble just to stay?_

"I . . ." Dark struggled over his answer. "I . . . wished to hear the rest of your tale," he stated weakly. Krad's eyes widened.

"What? You do all this, for merely _that_? . . . To listen in a story that was not meant for your ears in the first place? Forget it! Release me and leave at once!!"

Dark raised his eyes to the ceiling in displeasure; it seemed the fickle blonde had forgotten that just a moment's ago, he had wanted the thief-man dead, out of his life for good. Now, he was just settling to _see the back_ of Dark, being so desperate to escape his predicament that he had not a care in the world as to whom he was releasing—though be it so, Dark was not about to give into the spoiled aristocrat's demands.

"Well, now—_still_ handing out orders, are we? Even though you're all done up like that, hanging from the staircase?"

In looking up to see how right the thief was, (and perhaps make another fuss, just to irritate the man) Krad lost his footing and his temper. He slipped and fell to the floor, all the while screaming, "LET ME OUT OF THESE ACCURSED THINGS!"

Dark, being the rough-around-the-edges street orphan he was, merely doubled over in his chair at the spectacle before him, snorting with laughter.

"You be more a _child_ than a man!! What's the matter, always whining like that? Now I see why your family hated you! An honest, respectable family would never enjoy being around the likes of you!!" It had been a cruel thing to say, yes, but Dark had always been irked by immature temper-tantrums, and Krad's fit was treading awfully close.

However, a nerve was hit, and Krad could stand this abuse no longer. He collapsed on the floor loudly in a temper, and to the best of his ability turned his back on Dark. He said surprisingly calmly, "Then take your leave, thief. Steal whatever stupid little trinket you wish, leave this house, and never come back." And then he promptly started to ignore him.

Dark flinched. His inner voice beseeched him desperately to do as Krad had ordered, to leave while he still could . . . and yet . . . .

'_Something . . . there is that does not wish me to leave . . . some strange force, holding my will to this place, to him . . . but do I obey it? Or do I take my leave and wash my hands of this troublesome man forever?'_

Dark studied the large mass of worn white and dull yellow that fronted him thoughtfully, watching the way Krad breathed in and out quickly and shallowly, watching the way small tremors seized him for a moment's time, before he became immobile once again, watching his stubborn little withered figure lean wearily up against the wall, one arm up in the air limply . . .

And he couldn't do it. Just the way he could not eat a piece of bread when a hungry waif lay starving nearby, so could he not leave this helpless, ill blonde to decay inside an equally diminishing household, alone for the rest of his days, with nothing but the sin of blood and memory of horrible murder to keep him companionship. No, just as he had to help any suffering being he came upon, so did he now have to help Krad.

Resolve settling in, Dark pushed the reluctance out of his mind and stood, catching the attention of the one he wanted to help.

Marry, Krad would get help. Whether it be wanted or not did not matter.

* * *

Krad's golden eyes went wide as there came from above him a tiny 'click,' and a huge pressure on his wrist immediately relieved itself; his previously-entrapped arm tumbling down into his lap. He stared at it blankly, not being able to comprehend what had just taken place. 

Dark sighed, reaching down to that selfsame hand and inserting a tiny key into the lock of the side of the handcuffs that still encircled the fair-haired recluse's wrist. With another little click, the restraints came undone, and Dark pulled them away. He tucked the handcuffs and key back into his inside pocket.

Krad's molten gaze shifted to the thief. "What . . .?" He didn't know how to finish his inquiry . . . Nay—he didn't even know what it was he wanted to ask! Absently, the aristocrat figured that perhaps _"what"_ in itself had been the perfect question to pose.

Dark looked away, embarrassed. "Look, I don't know what kind of bloody murders you have committed in the past—and to be frank, I don't much _care_. I've seen much worse on the streets, justified by much less of a cause. But, I _do _care about people trying to murder themselves—as it is clear that you are attempting to do just that," he said.

Dark's words spun about Krad's head like an out-of-control merry-go-round, going too fast for the blonde to comprehend them. Though snippets of things _did_ flash through his confusion—_bloody murders; don't care; do themselves in_ . . .

'_Do themselves in?'_ Was he referring to Krad?

"Do . . . myself in?" Comprehension bloomed in Krad's twin suns, and they lit up with the fire of fury. "Are you suggesting that I am trying to _kill_ myself? _**No!!**_ I would _never_ bring about such a _shame_ as a taken life upon my family's name!! I would never disgrace myself in such a manner! How _dare_ you think so?!"

Dark's anger was stirred—but he silently bid himself be still; Krad had an ill temperament and was provoked easily, much the same as Dark himself was. Two angry people in a delicate situation such as this were not wise, his conscience told him, and he was able to withdraw his hateful emotions.

"Alright, alright—don't you get angry. But you must see my point. It is obvious to anyone who looks at you that you haven't bathed in a while, and who knows how long it's been since you've had a decent meal? What I mean is that you haven't been taking proper care of yourself, and if you don't correct your lifestyle, your habits will kill you."

Krad blinked, and then looked down upon himself. He hid a grimace. _'Ugh, that damnable thief is dead right . . . my appearance is dreadful! And now that he brings up the subject, I suppose I am rather hungry . . . 'tis strange that I haven't noticed it until now . . .'_

Krad sighed, and drew up his legs to his chest, where he clutched them almost desperately. He was so tired . . . Why had everything _changed,_ just because of that man? Why was he sitting hopelessly on the floor, being reminded and reminded and _reminded_ of the things he most wanted to forget? Why was he feeling such pain in his heart? A heart that he had long ago forgotten of?

Dark was slightly startled to see tears leaking out of the aristocrat's eyes, and felt guilty for being the obvious cause of them. He crouched down to the blonde's level, and whispered, "Krad?"

Krad didn't move; just continued to stare off into space, an unsettling colorless look about his features despite the tears flowing from his yellow eyes.

"I . . . had to do it."

The voice had been weak, and Dark had barely heard it. "Beg pardon?"

Krad gave a hollow laugh. Dark didn't like the way it clashed with the tears. "I never cried, you know. Even while I was _shooting_ them dead, I never shed a single tear. And I _haven't_ to this day." His gaze suddenly snapped up to Dark's, and his tone became accusatory. "I'm not sorry. I never have been sorry. They'd needed to be punished, and I was tired of waiting for some fictitious _god_to bring justice to my life! I've never shed a single tear . . ." Krad paused to wipe the said wetness off his cheeks quickly. "Why should it all change just because of _you_?"

Dark started. Was he really having this much of an affect on the blonde? Dark's majestic wine-colored eyes swept over Krad's soiled form, and without even realizing it he had spoken: "Excellent. You _need_ to cry; let out the grief that has plagued you for so long. For if you un-stopper the bottle of your emotions and let all that has accumulated over the years dissipate, _then_ you will be able to get your life back, and finally move on from this phantom's existence."

The resounding 'smack' could perhaps be heard throughout the whole Hikari manor; Dark's head flew to the side as Krad's hand raked over his cheek in a harsh slap.

Clutching his reddening cheek, the thief turned with disbelief in his eyes to the one who backhanded him so fiercely, so unabashedly.

"What . . .?"

Krad's gilded eyes bore holes into Dark's own, his anger blatant and frightening. He stood up swiftly, using the new height advantage to intimidate the stunned man.

"Don't you _dare_ pretend you have any idea what my life is like," he said lowly, dangerously— "You know _nothing_."

There was a pause, and then Dark spoke softly, face still grim. "I've seen murder after bloody murder in the alleyways, from gang fights, personal differences, and even the occasional madman . . . I've seen little children rot like yesterday's cabbage in the streets, dying from cholera, pneumonia, the measles and mumps . . . I've seen little girls ripped from the streets and brutally raped till their souls be gone . . . how can your life get any worse than that?"

Krad looked up to the ceiling, and Dark was surprised to see his face soften, as Krad lost himself in his reminisces.

". . . . I pray you are right, Dark . . . . " He closed his eyes painfully. "I really hope it can't."

Dark had no time to ask about this strange response when suddenly Krad turned and swung himself over the banister awkwardly, landing with a dull thud on the carpeted stairs.

Dark jumped to his feet, startled by Krad's actions. "W-where are you leaving off to?"

Krad ascended a few stairs, giving himself leeway lest Dark chose to give chase. "I've endured your attacks, satiated your damned curiosity, taken your dim-witted advice—and now I've had enough! Please remove yourself from my home, and this time—take heed! You've done enough, man! Leave me to my own devices, and save your damnable preaching for the Sabbath day!" he shouted; and before Dark had the chance to respond, he dashed up the remaining steps and disappeared down a corridor in a flash of white and gold.

Dark, at first, made as if to go after him—but, halfway up the stairs, he halted, and sat down in defeat. He had been through a portion of the Hikari house already, and knew he hadn't a chance to catch the blonde. _'This manor be more like a maze than a house. I won't be able to find him.'_

Sighing, Dark shuffled back down the stairs disappointedly, noticing the darkness of the empty house much more fully with the presence of the angelic blonde missing. He couldn't help but think that, when Krad had been there, things had seemed a might brighter and warmer then they were in actuality.

Sighing again, Dark took a couple of shaky steps towards the front door. There was nothing more he could do, he rationalized, and it was best for him to leave.

But—he couldn't! The closer he got to the door, the heavier his heart became, and the more rapidly it beat against his chest. No!—this was wrong! He couldn't leave, not like this . . . The seraph-like man was perhaps even more unstable than previously, and to leave him completely would undoubtedly have catastrophic results.

New resolution settling in, Dark stared at the corridor Krad had disappeared through as he made his way towards the blonde's beloved piano, silently sending him a solemn promise: _'You've not seen the last of me; and that I can promise . . .'_

He pulled out a single red rose from the depths of his coat; and so placing it delicately on the worn piano bench, Dark Mousey the infamous art thief gave one last look to the second-story landing, and then fled into the dark, starless night.

* * *

**I'm really sorry about this. It was so hard to stay consistent with my writing style for the first chapter with such a lond dead period in between writings, so this is not that good. I'm really really sorry for those who were expecting better; I know I've let you down.**

**Well, I really wanted this to be a two-shot, and after this crap I would have welcomed it . . . oh well. I will really TRY to make future chapters more like the first, but I've already disappointed you guys once and I might do it again.**

**Sorry.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Not much to say. Review:)

* * *

**

○III○ 

The dusky, dark blue of London's bitter winter twilight bled like a stain across the brilliant gold and lilac of sunset, infecting the clouds like a terrible virus, turning them dark and vicious in countenance. Thunder rolled on the horizon, and the mischievous Eastern Wind played tricks on various passersby; catching up their hats in his gusty hands, or pulling poor ladies' skirts to reveal what was hidden underneath.

As the sun was being banished from the earth and the darkness percolating the sky, the city's finest day-creatures, the wealthy and the prosperous, escaped from the wind and looming ill weather in their sparkling horse-drawn carriages; leaving for the safety and brightness of their beautiful English homes and manors. But like _rats_, and other nocturnal beings, London's poor and underprivileged were left to emerge from their miserable slum-houses and scurry about the city, quickly filling taverns and inns with a nightly, ritualistic _commotion_ that the wealthy would never see nor understand. With the city in it's crucial stages of industrialization, and immigrants quickly flocking to the great cities like vultures descending on rotten meat, the poor and wretched were left hung out to dry by the sheer cost of _breathing_, and found that their only comfort was being with each other in the soothing blanket of night and hoping for better times.

But there was _one . . . _one who ignored the loud shrieks of laughter from promiscuous women in the brothel houses and sidestepped the taverns and inns, disregarding the brouhaha streaming loudly through the open windows. There was one who kept his dark amethyst eyes on the rough cobblestone path beneath his feet, the lamplights throwing large, dull circles of light around him.

The youth stopped briefly, staring up at the sky to notice the lateness of the hour, and then walked more briskly towards his destination, pulling his tattered black coat tighter around his small frame and bowing his head against the wind. He walked for only a few blocks more, whereupon he came to a small tenant house, situated in-between two others of it's kind, strings of laundry strung up and swinging like garlands from the walls between them. Eyeing the filthy place distastefully for a moment's pause, the youth heaved a sigh clambered up the makeshift concrete-block steps to the door of one of the apartments, knocking deftly.

He barely had time to straighten out his coat before a crooked-looking old man answered his knockings, opening up the door a crack to stare out at the lavender-haired youth suspiciously with bulging eyes—before recognition flashed across his misty orbs and he threw the door open all the way.

"Wotcher, Misser Dark. Yeh've cum' ter see Miss Harada, now, ain't ye?"

Dark restrained himself from leaning slightly away as the old man's rancid, rotten breath filled his nostrils, and he forced a somewhat-pleasant smile upon his fair face.

"Good 'eve, Mr. Beverly. How is she?"

Beverly's already-sagging face drooped at Dark's question, and a drippy sort of sadness settled around his wrinkles as he turned his back on the boy before him. Hobbling over to his chair and lowering himself creakily onto it, Beverly put his cane upon his lap and fingered it nervously. Dark's kindness quickly became concern at that lack of response from the old man.

"Mr. Beverly…?"

"Boy, yeh'd best go in teh see 'er," the old man finally croaked out, moving his eyes to stare at the tense young man before him wearily. "Doctor's sayin' she's not goin' ter make it," he added reluctantly.

Dark did not linger in wake of such words. Spinning around, he dashed for the stairs, jumping them two at a time as his heart beat painfully in his chest. Horrid thoughts crept up on him, taking him unaware.

'_Ms. Harada!! Oh, what if I am too late? What if she has already . . .?'_

Making an agitated noise in his throat, he shook his head violently to clear it of any further thought, and flew down the corridor as fast as his legs could carry him. Nearly tumbling over a local tenant wife, Dark skidded around the corner and finally beheld his destination; an old, cedar door standing open and impending at the very end of the hall. Apartment number 2F, the Harada residence. Swallowing thickly, Dark paused on the landing, his eyes and thoughts morbidly drawn to the darkness surrounding the feeble light. How it seemed to swallow everything whole, he thought. The brave feeble rays, the cedar door and what lay beyond it, the _hope_ … it ate everything up and _swallowed it whole._

Inching down the hall, and feeling as if he were asphyxiating, Dark reached out a long, slender hand and gently brushed his fingertips against the rough grain of the door. He stopped beside it, unable to pass the obstacle. His head reeled with dreadful thoughts. What awful sights lay in wait for him behind this door? Was it worth going any further?

Dark exhaled noisily. What did it matter? He had an obligation to this family and a duty to Ms. Harada … and he would not bring in his own personal fears to add to the darkness that was already feasting on the sorrow and destroying the harmony of the place. No, he would _rebel_ against the damn fates, and bear hope proudly in the face of uncertainty. And so steeling himself, he gave two short raps on the door and entered.

Each apartment in the tenant house was only made of two rooms; a room where one lived and another where one slept. It was the same throughout the entire house, and certainly 2F was no different. The first room Dark walked into was the Harada living space. A card table was set up in the middle of the area, acting as the dinner table; around it were three pieces of sanded-down firewood, shaped to make benches for sitting. A fourth party had to sit on the family newspaper collection. Dark smiled fondly, remembering the many times he and Ms. Harada had cast lots to see who was stuck sitting on the papers for the evening meal—which had always resulted in an uncomfortable dinner for the amethyst-eyed boy a triumphant Ms. Harada goading him from across the table. Dark chuckled, wondering how he could have _ever_ believed Ms. Harada to be playing fair when drawing lots. After all, he always lost …

Positioned in the far right corner was a hearty wood stove, red-hot timbers smoldering and dying in it's iron belly. Respectfully, Dark went over and stirred the charcoaled logs, stoking up a fire. He fed the rekindled flames with fresh firewood, and set the poker aside. Stalling for time, he reached out and warmed his hands by the heat of the flames.

It was at this point he realized he was being observed. He whirled around, blinking—and saw a small head of tawny hair poking out from behind the woodpile on the other side of the room.

Dark smiled. "Hello, Riko. You are getting big! Your mother will have her hands full with you, I bet," he said kindly, bowing melodramatically in a way that he knew would make the little girl laugh.

She did, putting her tiny fists up by her face and stepping out from behind the stacked wood. "Mr. Dark …."

Pleased by her reaction, he rushed to take hold of her small form; whisking her off her feet and twirling her around as if they were ballroom dancing. "My lady . . .! Thou art as pretty as a swan, and far more graceful," he said languidly, and Riko shrieked in delight as he tossed her up into the air and caught her daringly. "You dance like a real princess."

Laughingly, he set her down and straightened. "But where is my Lady's mother or your kind grandparents, King and Queen Harada? Did they leave the fair Princess Riko to guard the castle all on her own?"

Riko, getting caught up in the older man's charade, jumped back to her hiding spot. Her eyes suddenly sparkled with mock-fear, and she looked warily at the ceiling. "Yes! And dragons are flying overhead! They want to eat my Auntie Rika!!" Her big brown eyes turned to stare at Dark's now-tense form. "But you won't let them, right Mr. Dark?" From her tone of voice, Dark could tell it was a serious and honest question. Smiling sadly, Dark swept the girl off the ground again and hugged her tightly.

"If I can help it, little Riko … _never_."

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Riko pointed at a closed door on the far wall. "Auntie Rika's in there. Papi is working, and Grammy and Mommy went to take measurements for the rich ladies. They won't be back until later," the girl stated, wiggling in Dark's arms until he put her down. Once safely on the floor, Riko skipped to their makeshift dinner table, and sat down on the pile of newspapers. She started drawing; ignoring the older man's presence. Dark could tell, rather miffed, that he'd just been brushed off by a four-year-old.

Shaking his head, Dark turned to face another obstacle. Another cedar door, matching the one that lay outside … he found himself hesitant once again, afraid of what he'd find inside. . . .

Deciding that he'd dawdled long enough, Dark firmly grasped the handle to the second door and pulled.

The room behind it was a small one; no bigger than six feet across and six high, with only one window set in the middle of the back wall, directly across from the door. The Haradas were not a wealthy family, but between the three working members of the family they brought in a sufficient amount of income as to not be labeled "poor" … They were comfortably lower middle-class, owning more than the average London family but not owning enough to hide themselves from the hardships and illnesses that seemed to define the city slums … no, they were every bit as susceptible to poverty as the lower class—if the young girl laying sickly on the cot in the corner of the room was anything to judge it by.

Against the left-hand side of the room, sitting tensely on top of a faded, fraying brown couch, were the two owners of the tenant building and their son—Emiko, Kosuke, and little Daisuke Niwa. Another Niwa, the old man Daiki, sat on an uncomfortable-looking black metal chair at the foot of the girl's bed, twiddling a black bowler between his hands nervously.

All four looked up, startled, as Dark swiftly entered the bedroom.

"Dark!" The three on the couch exclaimed simultaneously.

Daiki gave out a great barking laugh, stamping his feet in happiness. "Dark, me boy! It's been a while since these old eyes have laid sight on you …! How've ye been?"

Dark smiled warmly at the family surrounding him. "Well! I am glad to be with familiar company, to say the honest truth. I've missed you all. I … I heard tell of Ms. Harada's condition, and came as soon as possible. How is she?"

The grins faded, and the eyes lost their joy. Pure sadness replaced what had been there before, and all four seemed to slump in their seats. Finally, it was Kosuke Niwa who spoke, his chin in his hand.

"The doctor has only just taken his leave. There … there is nothing more he can do for her, he said. All we can do is wait; for she is not expected to live much longer. The cholera has too big of a hold on her …"

Dark sighed with an internal pain that was simultaneously new and familiar to him … swallowing thickly, he gathered courage and finally turned to face the girl sleeping on the bed.

And there, her tawny hair splayed about her face like a halo surrounding the head of a saint, was his dear Rika Harada. Her thin, pallid face was turned towards the ceiling in her sleep, as if she already had one foot through the gates of heaven; her dreams of paradise becoming a swift, golden reality …

_So pale_, Dark thought, nearly drowning in his despair. Treading softly, Dark crossed the bare wood floor and kneeled at her bedside, ducking his head in revered prayer as he pleaded silently for those beautiful mahogany eyes to open ….

After what seemed like hours, there came from in front of him the sound of rustling blankets and the creaking of the mattress; Dark looked up quickly to see honey-brown eyes fogged with fever and aching opening slowly; discarding sweet heavenly bliss to gaze upon the pain of reality once more.

"D. . .Dark?"

"Ms. Harada!!"

Dark shot up from his hunched-over position on the floor, and gazed upon his dear Ms. Harada with equal joy and hurting. He took up her pale, trembling hand in his own, and choked back tears, promising himself that the girl lying on the bed would never see him cry.

"D . . . Dark, h-how many times . . . must I ask y-you . . .? Call m-me . . . Rika . . ."

Dark, becoming so very near to breaking his promise, squeezed her hand tightly and managed to choke out, "Y-yes!! Anything! Anything you want, Ms. Harada . . . Rika . . ."

Rika smiled. "I'm g-glad you came to s-see me, Dark. . ."

Dark caressed the girl's palm lightly, trying to rid himself of his sadness. Rika would be alright. She didn't need his negativity blackening the room further.

"I am sorry I didn't come sooner. It's my work; you see . . . it takes me all over the country and sometimes I don't get back for a while . . . I only just got in last night, in fact . . . ."

It was not Rika who replied. Instead, Emiko spoke up from her tearful position on the frayed couch, her tone equally worried and sarcastic. "Now which job are you referring to? Your job as Mr. Saehara's hired _monkey_, or your late-night gallivanting around the city, stealing priceless valuables and barely avoiding the police? Not even _**once**_ letting your mother know where you are, or if you are still _**alive**_ . . ." As she spoke, her sarcasm melded into tears, and she started crying again. "As if _this_ wasn't enough, you want me to lose _you_ too . . ." she sobbed bitterly.

Dark looked questioningly and apprehensively at Rika—who nodded, silently giving the dark-haired boy permission to leave her side for a while. Squeezing Rika's had one more time; Dark got up and went to comfort his mother instead. There was brief confused commotion as Daisuke and Kosuke scuttled clumsily over to make room for the second-youngest of their company; and when the bustle was over Dark squeezed into the small space in-between Emiko and Daisuke and enveloped Emiko in a soothing embrace.

"Come now, Mother. Where's the Niwa optimism? I'm all right; everything is okay. . ." Emiko covered her eyes and sobbed into the young man's shoulder, his fingers making soothing circles on her back as she cried.

Emiko wasn't Dark's real mother; nor were they related by blood. Dark had been orphaned at a very young age, and had taken care of himself for longer. His parents had been very cold and callous individuals, but also fabulously wealthy through their dealings in the London Black Market. They had not, however, been very good parents, and mainly left Dark to himself. But on Dark's fifth birthday, on a December colder than anyone had remembered it, Dark's parents had never come home; murdered by black-market art collectors on a deal gone wrong. Afterwards, the police had confiscated everything they had left behind—the house, the valuables, the money—leaving Dark with nothing but the clothes on his back and the prospect of life in the Workhouse. Needless to say, on the very night before the town Beadle would have taken him away to live in the oppressive workhouse with other penniless orphans, Dark had packed as much food as a small five-year-old could carry and ran away, never to see his family house again.

It seemed that in the course of the next few years the Mousey genes had reigned dominant over all others, no matter how anyone tried to suppress them—Dark's small, _mousey_ build and willowy figure made him of little use for manual labor . . . however, his quick wits and reflexes along with his small body made him the perfect pickpocket and thief. Throughout his years spent alone on the streets, Dark _stole_ his way through existence; stealing everything from food, purses, and jewelry to paintings, sculptures and other valuable works of art. The Mousey name being infamous in the Underground Market, Dark managed to pull off several successful business deals, receiving big pay-offs from various Black-market art collectors and generally living day-to-day with a few spare tuppence in his pockets. He by no means lived the good life—the life he saw others living when he peeked into brightly-lit windows of pretty houses on the main street—but he did better than the other urchins his age; having at least one good square meal a day and the occasional bed at the poorhouse (which he paid heavily for). However, on one cold, winter night—around a couple years or so ago—Dark's life was to change forever.

He had been searching the alleyways for a practical place to lay his head down, for he had spent the last of his meager coins earlier in the evening for supper, and had not any left to buy his way into a real bed. In a particular nasty part of town, (a part which Dark unfortunately called home,) Dark had turned down a gloomy alleyway in-between the shops of the butchers in Shambles, meaning to head over to the Piccadilly's house where he knew another, more-inviting alleyway waited. Halfway down the Shambles, however, he had run into a teary-eyed little Daisuke Niwa, son of a local merchant, who had lost his way on returning home from the docks. Dark had immediately aided the boy by taking the redhead to familiar surroundings, so he could easily navigate his way home. As a gesture of goodwill and thanks, the little redhead had invited Dark inside the Niwa's apartment to warm himself and meet the other tenants in the house. Dark himself had been surprised at how many people actually took up residency in Tenant House number 457; and by the time the soft gaze of Dawn had touched the midnight sky, brightening up the world and silhouetting the buildings surrounding 457, Dark had relayed his life story four times; each time to different company, and each time to more kindness and compassion than the last.

Needless to say, he had been living at the Niwa's small tenant house ever since. He had come to learn that the Niwas always had big hearts, and reached out to the less-fortunate anytime they could (if the large residency at their apartment had any say of it).

When Emiko's cries had faded into soft sniffles, Dark got up from the couch and once again kneeled at the side of his beloved Rika's bed.

Silence reigned in the little room for a few minutes; the bodies in the vicinity comforting each other with not words, but with mere _presences_, creating a soothing atmosphere for all of them and combating some of the darkness that still circled over their heads threateningly.

But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, a cheery smile passed across Dark's gloomy features as he remembered something important.

"Oh, Ms. Rika! I have a gift for—"

Dark froze.

In his mind's eye, a delicate red flower lay peacefully on a bench of dusty mahogany wood, two slim, pale hands reaching; grasping . . . golden orbs alight with curiosity . . .

"D-Dark?"

". . .f-for . . . Oh, dear . . ." He slipped his hand inside his overcoat, praying that he had somehow imagined those certain prior events which led him to the present; those events which were now dancing through his mind, mockingly. Had he really given it away? The gift he had spent his entire day's savings on? His hand grasped at nothing. It was indeed absent.

"Oh, Ms Rika! I'm sorry! I had a beautiful rose for you, but I've seemed to . . . misplace it," he apologized, spitting out an excuse he believed to be theoretically the truth. After all, the rose had _indeed_ been misplaced—misplaced in the wrong home, in the wrong settings, in the wrong person's hands . . .

Rika chuckled softly; but her laughter quickly turned into chest-heaving coughs, and her gaiety was transformed into that ugly beast, Pain. Dark rubbed frantically at her back in soothing circles, willing the organs underneath to be tranquil once again. Soon they indeed settled, and Rika collapsed back on the pillow exhaustedly.

"D-don't fret about me, Dark. You shouldn't w-waste your hard-earned m-money for m-me, either. You should . . . should . . ." She had to pause in mid-sentence; the amount of effort it took for her to speak blatant. She panted heavily for a moment.

"Ms. Rika, if speaking is troublesome then you should not speak," Dark chastised lightly. She did not heed, and continued as if there had been nary a pause.

"You s-should be finding a new S-Sacred Maiden . . . buy f-flowers for them, instead of m-me . . ."

Dark was horrified. "Ms Rika!! How could you say such things! You are my _only_ maiden … there will never be anyone other than you! I _love_ you, Rika …" Tears slipped past his defenses and streamed down his cheeks in small rivulets. "That's why you mustn't leave me! You have to overcome this! For _my_ sake! I swear I will never love another . . ." His thoughts flashed briefly to Krad, though he didn't understand why; thus did not dwell on it.

Rika merely smiled at him, reaching a hand up to her love's face, brushing the tears away tenderly.

"Oh, but Dark . . . that's n-not true, is it? I c-can see it. You're thinking about someone. S-someone you've already met. And, oh D-Dark, that person _needs_ you … needs you so much m-more than I …" She went into a coughing fit again.

However, this one was of larger magnitude than the others . . . After several minutes of pained coughing she turned on her side and gagged, unable to breathe. The adults cried out in alarm and flew off the couch, pushing the frozen Dark aside and tending to the choking Rika . . .

But none of these events penetrated Dark's whirling mind. The tangible world around him faded away; his eyes wide, seeing nothing—only melted colors, bleeding into each other and mixing with the blackness that crept up on his senses and ate at the corners of his mind.

_S-someone else? N-needs …. Me? Could it be . . .?_

A new world began in his mind's eye where the old one ended; the melted-down colors mixed and became something else . . . something different entirely. They formed a world in which everything was backwards, and nothing made any sense to the young man anymore.

"Her fever is running higher than ever!! Someone call the doctor, quickly!!"

A world of gold, white, and crosses … a world of picture frames, of blank yellow paper and unimaginable loneliness …..

"Rika!! Rika!! Stay with me! Don't look away!!"

A world of remnants, of formal outings and fancy dinner parties, of fragmented remains of what used to be high society . . . a world of beautiful faded red carpets, of cob-webbed crystal chandeliers, and mahogany piano benches…

"Auntie Rika!! Auntie Rika!!!"

A _stifling_ world. A world of neglect, and hatred. A world of blood ….

". . . _.My God . . . _She's_ dead_ . . ."

* * *

The funeral was a small one; the Harada's couldn't afford much more than a preacher and a plot of dirt to bury her in. Mr. Harada was able to bargain with the undertaker and purchase a defective tombstone; a lump of pink granite unworthy of being called a grave marker. It had several cracks in the stonework; and consequently when the engraver carved Rika's name into the granite, the letter "R" was crooked. But, the family was able to overlook such flaws because there was no alternative, and it was for Rika. _Everything_ was for Rika.

They felt sorry for him—that tall, handsome young man standing motionless beside the grave, staring at the lump of stone with a vacant expression on his face, even long after the burial. They tried to get him to say something, to move, to go home. But he wouldn't respond; gazing unfocusedly at the pink mass of rock as if it were the only thing in his world.

Eventually they all had to leave, though they were unwilling to leave him behind.

"Dark, me boy . . . we'll miss her, we all will, but you can't do this to yerself!! Come on home now, y' hear?" Daiki gave one last brilliant effort to crack the young man's senses; but all for naught. Dark remained as motionless as he had been since the girl died; neither nodding nor even _blinking_ to indicate that he had comprehended the old man's words. Daiki sighed in defeat. "Jus' . . . come'on home when yer ready, hear? We'll . . . leave th' lamp out for ye . . ." And so saying his odd goodbyes, left with the rest of the family.

Day had turned to dusk before the young man moved, shifting weight to the other foot and sighing heavily. He looked to the sky; watching the shadows of night creep past the daylight's defenses, darkening the world with an oppressive _nothingness_ that seemed to transcend simple reality and strike somewhere deeper, Dark thought. He finally moved fully; sinking to his knees and leaning heavily over his love's grave, being mindful of the few lilies that were strewn over the soft, fresh dirt at the foot of the stone. He put his head in his hands, staring at the beautiful flowers of death unfocusedly.

He'd reached a turning point. His life had changed with the passing of Ms. Rika; though he couldn't tell if it would be for the better or worse. There had been a time when his existence had been so simple . . . he had lived each day in the moment, and had never had a single regret. Nothing could have touched him then. Not his past, his future, his worries, or his pain. When he had been younger, such strife had never existed for him . . . smiling ironically, Dark wondered how he could have missed it's coming. His smile faded. Regardless of missing it or not, his grief _was here_—he was feeling it stronger than ever, now.

Dark sighed, and took a small, square glass bottle out of his inside jacket pocket. He raised it up to eye-level, scrutinizing the flashy label almost guiltily. He really shouldn't have purchased this . . . uncorking the opening, Dark remorsefully took a long swig of the contents inside, wincing as it burned his mouth and throat as he swallowed.

"Heh . . . S-strong stuff . . ."

Hiccupping gracefully, he stoppered the bottle again and stashed it away in his hidden pocket, for later. He felt a little better now, but soon the numbness would wear off and he would need more.

He had gone to the general store directly before the funeral, to buy a lily for Rika's grave . . . However, as he headed to the flower display; he had passed by the store's liquor selection, and paused. As he stared at the many bottles of liquid depression, he had begun thinking of what was to come, and the funeral he would be attending later. His heart then began aching so badly that he'd impulsively grabbed the first bottle that had caught his eye, wanting for anything that would make the pain vanish. He'd ended up spending every penny he'd had with him on the damned stuff.

Thinking about what he had done and how selfish he had been, Dark made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. Rika had never approved of alcohol, and would be disgusted at the sight of him right now.

"Sorry, Rika . . ."

"_Oh, but Dark . . . that's n-not true, is it? I c-can see it. You're thinking about someone. S-someone you've already met. And, oh D-Dark, that person needs you … needs you so much m-more than I …"_

Unbidden, the words came back to him, whispered on a fragrant wind. His eyes widened.

"R-Rika . . .?!"

"_Dark . . . buy f-flowers for them, instead of m-me . . ."_

His hand unconsciously gripped the bottle of spirits hidden in his coat; a bottle that he had purchased in place of a lily for Rika's grave.

"O-oh . . . I'm so sorry, Ms. Rika. I did it again, d-didn't I? I didn't have a flower for you . . ."

"_Dark . . . You're thinking about someone. . . . buy flowers for them . . . instead of me . . . that person needs you. . . buy flowers for them . . . S-someone you've already met.. . . . Dark . . . ."_

For the first time since the girl's death, Dark buried his face in his hands and sobbed. So many emotions had been brought up by the girl's replayed words; emotions that were once again resurfacing and overtaking the alcohol in his system and the willpower of his mind.

"I'm sorry . . . so sorry . . . . Ms. Rika . . . . I'm so so sorry . . . . Please forgive me . . . dear Rika . . ."

"_You're thinking about someone. . ."_

And she had been right. He _had_ met someone, hadn't he? A lonely little blonde, bound: bound to his guilt and his duty to his family, bound to a life of penitence for his sins . . . Yes, he had met someone. It was the fascinating and pitiful Hikari recluse . . . the one with whom he was already entranced by . . . and Rika had, instinctively, known it. It must have been in his eyes, Dark pondered; a faraway look that gave his distracted thoughts away . . . thoughts reeling with the image of the most _beautiful_ molten gold eyes . . .

_**Roses are red, violets are blue . . .**_

Wiping his eyes, Dark stood.

"_That person needs you. . ."_

With a newfound reassurance of his purpose, Dark turned to say his last goodbyes. "Yes, Rika. He does need me. You're right. He needs me badly. And I must help him."

_**Death is here and He beckons for you . . .**_

"Thank you Rika. Thank you so much, for all you have done. And, whether you knew it or not, I really and truly did love you with _all_ my heart. If you never remember anything else, please remember that.

"I will not be sad anymore, Rika. I know you would not want me to be. You've shown me the path that I should take, and now I will press forward and do everything I can do, for both of us. I _will_ heed your words. I _will_ go back. And I _will_ do everything in my power to help him." he confessed softly, caressing the cold stone grave marker as if it were the cheek of the girl he'd loved and lost.

_**Lilies are white, coffins are black . . .**_

He leaned down, and pressed his lips to her engraved name. "Goodbye Rika. You will never be forgotten. Please watch over me, as I will be living the rest of my life for you . . ."

Straightening, Dark took one last look at Rika's final resting place, and took off into the night.

"_Dark . . . ."_

_**Keep going forward and never look back.

* * *

**_

**Wow. This is even FURTHER from the writing style of the first chapter than the last one was. I am so so so sorry about the inconsistency!! And it was boring besides; sorry for that too. I know that's not what you want to hear, but sorry is all I can say. Oh, and can't forget about the awful attempts to write colloquially and the boring dialogue. I fail at life. :(**

**The poem at the end, however, I am proud of. :) It's just a little four-liner that popped into my head as I was writing the last scene . . . and it fit so I stuck it in there. I'm not the best at poetry . . . but I have my own style and it feels right, to me … so it's cool.**

**Review. :)

* * *

**


	4. Chapter 4

**I have been active! I promise! I didn't abandon anything!**

**This was a long time in the making. Please enjoy it. And don't forget to throw this exhausted author a review!

* * *

**

○IV○ 

The sun was shining merrily that early autumn morning, contrasting starkly with the mood at Number 457. The funeral having just been yesterday, the tenants still bore the traditional black of the mourner … yet it was not only their clothing that gloomed the place, but also their thoughts; creating in the atmosphere a black, foreboding shadow that clung to their backs like a demon on a damned man, ruining all attempts at cheer.

There was one mind in the house that morning, however, from which negativity seemed absent. This mind, unlike the others, was thinking about the future instead of the past; setting goals and mapping out upcoming actions all in preparation for his new purpose—a purpose set for him by none other than the mourned; his lost love, Rika Harada. She had closed her own door to him and gave way for another door to open … and Dark sat in the tiny study, thinking and waiting and planning in preparation to enter it.

'_There will be no more sneaking around in the cover of night like a petty thief … I will go in the daytime, ring the bell and face him like a worthy man. I will show him that there is more to me than meets the eye, and hopefully earn his trust.'_ Dark tapped his fountain pen on the desk absent-mindedly. _'I need his trust if I am to make him well again …'_

Dark looked down inattentively at an old newspaper he had brought in from the Harada's apartment, where he'd been penning out Rika's name over and over again, in various complicated calligraphic lettering underneath an unimportant article.

At least, he _thought_ it had been Rika's name—Dark was surprised to see not Rika Harada's, but Krad Hikari's name curling up at him on the yellowed paper. Dark dropped his pen, hands shaking as he realized the extent of his mistake.

It seems, even as he had clearly been thinking Rika's name, Krad's had spouted out from the end of his pen, and it was _this_ name that now shone over every available space on the paper—parallel to the emboldened titles; forming choppy boxes around articles; gathering at the corners like dust.

And then, without warning, the names became animate; coiling and crawling across the paper like inchworms, detaching themselves from the flat plane and becoming a part of the dimensional one. They pulled themselves up Dark's arms, curling around him tightly like ropes, trying to drag him down with them to the yellowed nothingness of the paper from whence they came. Dark screamed, trying to pry them off, but they only grasped him all the tighter, pulling down with a force that the black-haired man could barely fight. Ink slid like blood down his skin, staining everything a deep, dark black—it was into this the letters dragged him; into an inky blackness that yielded no light, yet had deeper dimensions than anything in the real world—he felt that he would fall forever, and never come to anything at all. The letters, now white against the darkness, detached themselves from him at once, and started coming together in a large mass, forming something so white that Dark had to shield his eyes in order not to be burned. Through eyes like slits, he saw Rika Harada standing before him, falling with him, just as radiant in death as she had been in life.

"R-Rika?!"

'_Dark … how many times have I told you … that person needs you … more than I … why … are you … here?'_

Dark felt like crying. "I know it!! I do!! Please Rika, help me out of here … Miss Rika, please …"

But Rika had already vanished; the letters were back again, shifting over one another hastily to form a taller figure, a slighter one—Dark gasped as Krad's body materialized in front of his eyes, as sallow and dreary as the day he had met the blonde. His dull eyes bored into Dark's head, and slowly, silently, he extended his arm out to Dark.

A dying red rose was clutched in his gloved hand. It was shedding browned, deadened petals by the clusters, and when the last petal fell, so too did Krad; falling backwards into the mass of churning, angry letters.

"Krad!!"

'_Dark …! Dark …!'_

Dark clutched his head, still crying out Krad and Rika's names as he attempted to fold into himself, to protect himself from the angry, buzzing letters that had swarmed around him once again, stinging him, biting him. Each letter seemed to cry out his name all at once, and the volume became such that Dark didn't think he would be able to bear it much longer. Clutching his ears, he attempted to drown out all the other voices with his own voice; calling out to Rika and even Krad in hopes that they would come and save him; save him like he had been unable to save them …

'_Dark … Dark … Dark …'_

"**Dark!**! Wake up, Dark!! Dark!!"

Dark's eyes swiftly opened.

Moist, sparkling plains of deep scarlet were what he saw first.

"Daisuke …‼"

The little Niwa boy he had come to love as a brother was hovering over him worryingly, his back stooped to better see Dark's face.

Dark blinked, looking down. His cheek was plastered to the desk and newspapers beneath him, and at some point in his slumber he had knocked over his vial of ink, which now surrounded him like a blackened halo; as thick and dark as the blood of a demon. It reminded Dark of his terrible nightmare, and he quickly peeled his face off the newspaper and shied away from it.

But in that fleeting glimpse of the newspaper, he noticed—half in relief, half in trepidation—that, unlike in his dream, Krad Hikari's name was nowhere to be found. It had indeed been Rika's name, made beautiful by his pen, which he had been lettering.

"Dark … you were moaning and crying in your sleep … Are you all right?" Daisuke's tearful voice filtered through the darkness in his mind, shining through like a beacon of light and making the shadows dissipate. Dark, rubbing his reddened cheek, turned to his little brother.

"I am fine, dear Daisuke …" he replied kindly, pulling in the smaller redhead for a calming embrace. "Thank you for waking me." He held the boy at arm's length, giving him a smile.

Daisuke, sniffling with the aftereffects of his fear, smiled back. But it lacked sincere emotion, and that was when Dark saw through it.

"Daisuke … pray, why is there such sadness in those eyes of yours? You look as though your very spirit is dying, and your body facing purgatory!! If it is Rika's passing that is doing this to you, then we need to talk," Dark uttered gently, grasping Daisuke's chin lightly with his hand. Daisuke held a watery gaze with him for a few moments, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout that could only be described as completely adorable, before he gave a wail and pushed his face into Dark's chest.

"Dark!!"

Startled, Dark's arms hung suspended above the shuddering form of Daisuke Niwa as his mind struggled to catch up to the recent occurrings. Finally, Dark let his arms rest comfortingly on Daisuke's back, rubbing it a bit.

"Daisuke … shh … everything will be all right; you'll see …"

"Dark, you're leaving again, aren't you?"

The question caught the midnight-thief by surprise. He had not been expecting it. "Oh, Daisuke … is _that_ what has you so upset?"

Daisuke looked sorrowfully up at him, tears leaving smudges as they fell down his cheeks. "You always leave us … why do you go away? Don't you love us anymore?"

Dark sent a pitiful, painful glance down at the younger boy, and then scooped him up and set him on his lap. Daisuke squeaked at the sudden action, but soon fell back against his brother's chest again. Dark rocked their bodies back and forth soothingly.

"Daisuke … I'm so sorry. Of course I love you, and Emiko and Kosuke, too! I don't mean to hurt you … I had not the foggiest idea you felt this way … can you forgive me?"

Daisuke burrowed his head deeper into Dark's embrace, and remained silent. Dark's heart steadily became heavier as the silence wore on. However, after a few more sniffles, the twelve-year-old redhead spoke, his words muffled by Dark's frock coat.

"Are you leaving soon?"

Dark looked up, and weighed the question in his mind. It was true; had circumstances been different, he would have been long since gone from the place, off roaming about the countryside and living like he had no ties to anyone. Much like he had done in his life before the Niwa's—homeless, heartless, a callous way of life. Not to get anything wrong; he was very fond of the Niwa's for giving him a loving family and somewhere to call home.

And yet, he had never been able to settle himself down and assimilate into their way of life; trying to do so always left him feeling claustrophobic and restless in 457, shut in the little apartment like a dog in its kennel. He couldn't help himself; he had always had a spirit as wild and kindred as a stallion, with a fierce and determined mindset to match it.

He had never regretted it, feeling that his adoptive family understood. But now, looking at the reaction he had unknowingly caused in little Daisuke, for the first time he felt sorry.

"No, Daisuke … I'm not leaving anytime soon. I'm staying here, with you. How does that sound?"

Daisuke gasped and looked up at him with sparkling, eager eyes; eyes that were, however, still not without sorrow; "Do you really mean it?"

Dark leaned over, touching his forehead to Daisuke's. "I mean it," he whispered with a grin. After all, he mused silently, there was work to be done …

In the wake of the two brothers, on the desk left behind, a brilliantly shining name was left to be devoured by the hungry, black ink spreading slowly across the surface; never to be seen again. Rika Harada was gone.

* * *

How strange it was, Dark mused, that an object as simple as a doorway could part objects as vastly complex as different universes. They were the portals between worlds, separating the 'here' from the 'there' and creating little pockets of nothingness that acted as a transitional between them. Dark felt exactly like he had stepped into another universe when he crossed the threshold of 457; a universe that had no death, no sorrow, no pain. Rika didn't exist in this other dimension—people went by with the usual hubbub of a Saturday afternoon, completely oblivious to the fact that behind Dark—centimeters from his fingers, clawing and scratching at the wood of the door to try to take possession of him once again—were the shadowed beasts of sorrow; of a life lost and a family in mourning. They were not aware that in the wake of this anonymous stranger, whom they had never met … a world was ending.

Sighing, Dark pulled a cap over his tousled hair and turned up his collar against the wind, folding his arms into his body to keep them warm as he cantered down the stoop and joined the crowd milling about in the street below. It was a Saturday, which meant that the open-air London Free Market would be going on all day in various parts of the city. Tenant building #457 was in a very tightly-packed neighborhood, so naturally there were many wonderful things happening around Dark as he made his way down the street. Fishermen were waving their catches in the air. Red-faced, beefy housewives displayed their home-cooked cakes and pies with pride, creating an absolutely delectable atmosphere for shoppers. Artists showed off their creations, tailors advertised their services, and small children ducked between legs, calling out with squeaky lisps for people to buy the latest edition of the London Times.

It was all wrong, thought Dark, frowning at the cheeriness and gaiety surrounding him. It wasn't fair—didn't these people realize that someone dear to him had passed on? Didn't they understand that his world had crashed down upon him? Didn't they realize that his poor, dear Rika was dead? Didn't anyone care?

But no, no, that wasn't right. How could they know? They lived in worlds as separate as the night and the day—no one had been to _his_ world, had seen the darkness there. Oh, surely there were some … but obviously none present in this glittering, sunlit globe. He was alone, and never had he felt more so.

"S'cuse me, sir? Penny for the Lon'on times?"

Dark blinked at the little voice, and looked down to where it appeared to be coming from. A little whelp of a boy was looking up at him with large, misty white eyes, brandishing the morning paper.

Dark stared at the smudged little face peering up at him, and felt a large weight remove itself from his shoulders. He smiled and crouched down to the boy's level.

"Good day, little sir. What is your name?"

"I dunno 'bout sir, but me name's George—like the King! Does this mean you're buying me paper?"

Dark smiled at the child's frankness. "No, but I'll tell you a secret …" He pulled out an entire pound, and put it in the startled child's pocket. "There's really nothing interesting in the rag today," he said laughingly, and stood back up.

Patting the child's head, he took his leave. He couldn't afford to be held up for very long, after all. His destination was still a good long walk's off. Thinking about where he was bound, he unconsciously gazed off to the west, where he could literally feel the presence of the one he meant to call on. What was he doing now, Dark wondered …?

Ten minutes into his excursion, Dark knew he was getting nearer. He had officially passed through the invisible interface between the poor and the wealthy, into that shaded gray area between them known as the business district. He passed lawyers' firms and industrial factories (distinguishable by the dark smog hovering over the premises like black, greasy thunderclouds), hotels and hospitals—but what Dark found strange, though wonderful, were the plethora of people—people from all different backgrounds and social statuses—who looked up from their eventful lives to _acknowledge_ him. Women waved and giggled as he passed them by; gentlemen tipped their hats and bid him good day; children with their canine companions ran through his legs, unafraid! Dark found this mysterious friendliness very spiritually recharging, and soon found himself smiling as he made his way down the street.

At the end of the business district was the London National Bank, agreeably one of the most beautiful buildings in the business district. Dark was just passing it's wide, grand staircase when a voice called out to him through the crowd.

"Eyup! 'Ow do, gaffer? Where's tha bound, then?"

Dark blinked. Another person willing to stop and have discourse—perhaps this was God's way of cheering him up! He was grateful; he felt better for it. He turned to the man leaning against the stone pillar at the foot of the bank's stairs, smiling.

"I am no one's boss, but it flatters me to hear you speak so. I tell you I'm off to see a friend. But, if I may be so blunt, why do you ask? Would you have something of me?"

The Yorkshire man, arms crossed over a workman's shirt, tossed the tan bangs away from his face with a jerk of his head, and made his way over to Dark.

"Tha looked mardy, so I thought I'd make thee goodly again …"

Dark smiled wider to hide his confusion. He had never been good with the Yorkshire dialect. "Er … thank you?"

The man, acute to confusion when it came to his colloquial language, rubbed his head and laughed heartily. "Tha' munst be so flummoxed, gaffer. I only meant that tha looked badly, and I aimed t' reet it. But 'twould seem only reetin' going on here is thissen!"

Dark laughed along with the man to buy him some time to figure out what he was laughing about. _'Okay … munst is easy, that means must not … flummoxed? Dear lord, what on earth does that mean? Flummoxed, flummoxed … ergh …'_

The man didn't give him any longer, for he spoke again. "Aye … to say honestly, I saw thee goin' west, and I 'appened that tha wo off to the Hikari place. Ist th' where's tha bound?"

Dark looked up sharply, startled. He didn't say anything for a while, pondering as to why this man knew of his destination where there were so many other places to go when traveling west. When his eyes found no answers, his mouth sought them instead.

"Who are you?"

The man looked at the ground, a sudden meek look overtaking his boyish face. "Me nayam's Elliot, gaffer, n' I wo a manservant at the Hikari Manor long ago, when all the Hikari wo still living. I seen tha cum' out o' the Manor a fortnight ago, and wondered who tha was and wot tha wanted theer. An' just now, seeing thee again … I was suppos'en that th' Manor was where tha's going. 'Aving spent me whole life theer, I wo interested …"

Dark was surprised. "You were a manservant there? Then you know of Krad Hikari, and that he still lives."

Elliot's face darkened. "Aye, gaffer, tain't a bloody soul in this warld who can forget the likes o _**'im**_. Krad Hikari, bonny lad, he. Fairer than o flower, but a rum'un--darker than a blood 'ound … I 'appen it's _**'im**_ wot did his kinfolk in …"

Dark scowled, somehow upset to hear the harsh words come out of the manservant's mouth. "Rubbish! I don't believe a bloody word of it. I'm sure you ran off _well_ before you could find out the whole story!"

Elliot's fists clenched at the accusation being hurled at him. "Oh, aye?! Nowt o the sort!! It's Krad what fired me!! 'Ow dare tha chelp 'bout what thissen dunno? What's tha know 'bout the story, eh?! Tha don't know owt!!"

The two stared each other down for a while, both panting in anger, before Dark backed down somewhat.

"You're right. I do not know much—not compared to you, someone who's lived a lifetime at the place. But I do know this: murderer or not, Krad is in dire need of help, and I'm the only one who can give it to him," he said firmly, and aimed to walk away from the infuriating, confusing Yorkshire man and leave him behind.

"A right bloody fool, that's what tha are," came his disgruntled voice, and then surprisingly his body fell into step beside the midnight thief. "Krad'll murder us both 'fore the sun sets," he sighed forlornly.

Dark froze. "Both?"

Elliot blinked at him. "Tha's daft as a brush! O' course I'm going withee!! If't lad hadn't fired me; I wouldst ne'er av flown the house! Me n' Freedert n' Kyle all woulda stayed …" He seemed sadder now, as he trudged slowly onward through the streets.

"... Wot tragedy begot th' Hikari? They wo allus a darker sort … but ne'er did we servants expect wot wo to cum' …" Elliot sighed, and put his hands in his tattered jacket's pocket. One of his fingers poked out through a hole in the bottom.

Dark was confused at his feelings towards this man. An embodiment of contradiction, that was for sure—saying one thing and doing another. Such cruel words had he spoken against Krad! And yet … he was now on his way, possibly all the way to death's door, to aid Dark in his mission to cure the wretched angel of his diseased mind and emaciated well-being.

As they walked, and as Dark mused about his newfound ally, Elliot talked.

"Though if thee don't mind me curiosity … how didst thee cum' to th' Hikari Manor in th' first place? Ne'er 'ave I seen wit' me own eyes another soul in th' place since th' tragedy …"

Dark pondered whether or not he should divulge that information to the seemingly goodly man, as his intentions that night had been far from it.

"Well … a difficult question to answer, I'm afraid. There, er, was in fact a reason … but …" the thief chattered nervously, afraid of losing face in the presence of such an obviously honest man—but it ended up making no difference. Despite the lack of education, Elliot was by no means dim-witted.

"I see. Another collector, then, out to take fer thissen the famous Hikari artworks. Tha'd be su'prised how many of thee theer are," he commented off-handedly, outwardly unaffected by Dark's revealed occupation. Dark rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

"Er, right. That was of course the reason. I'm sure you understand why I was hesitant to give it," Dark stated lamely, as if to give an explanation for his lack of articulation. However, he sent a sidelong glance to Elliot's blank face. "Though why you aren't a bit more curious about it, I do find odd. Have you many art thief companions, then?"

Elliot shrugged. "Th' warld ain't so nice a place no more, gaffer. 'Specially in our warld; th' underground of th' city. Tha' tend t' know a few people, if tha know wot I mean."

Dark knew very well what the Yorkshire man meant. He turned his violet gaze back to the cobblestone beneath him, smiling ironically. "Heh. Truer words never spoken."

Topics of conversation seemed to elude the pair then—uneasy silence fell heavily between them as they made their way through the business district, both hearts beating to a cadence of dreadful anticipation. For Dark, it was anticipation based on an aching need in his soul to see the blonde man again—and for Elliot; it was dread for the young aristocrat's reaction at once again seeing not only a servant he had fired long ago, but also a man who had tried to rob him!!

'_Summit tells me that Krad'll withhold th' welcomin' committee when we get theer …'_ he thought to himself cynically.

Large factories gave way for large businesses, and large businesses gave way for small businesses—and soon businesses altogether thinned out, giving way for beautiful English manors and homes. The two members from below London's poverty line grew steadfastly more and more nervous, until it seemed that the ill-fated Hikari manor loomed darkly over all London; though the reality of the situation was that they had not even _begun_ to see it yet.

Dark began fiddling nervously with his cap, pulling it off and adjusting it, only to put it back on in the same state in which he had removed it. A question tumbled across his mind noisily, until he felt the need to voice it to his companion.

"Elliot … I had begun to think … and I'm not quite sure if … well, what do you think we should … when we get there, I mean …"

The Yorkshire man didn't even waste energy on deciphering Dark's unfinished thoughts. He just turned to look dryly at Dark's turbulent amethyst eyes.

"Honestly, gaffer—with th' way thee just spoke, one would think that _tha'd_ be the one with th' accent! Spit it out, lad," he advised roughly, but one could not miss the beginnings of a smile curving his lips. Dark smiled too, silently grateful that the tension of the situation had been neutralized. He put a hand sheepishly behind his head.

"My apologies. What I was _trying_ to ask, is what you advised to do once we arrived at the manor. I mean, should we knock on the door? I admit I was hoping—"

"Tha's daft!" Elliot suddenly barked, interrupting the thief mid-sentence. Dark looked up sharply, eyes widened in surprise and confusion. Elliot glared sternly back.

"What?"

The Tyke man folded his arms across his wide chest. "I've said it before, 'n I'll say it again. Tha's madder than th' Hatter, 'n I mean that in every sense o' th' word," he stated matter-of-factly.

Dark's features fell flat, and his fists clenched. Bristling like a cornered cat, he tersely replied, "Well, _that_ is an opinion you have made quite clear, Elliot. I would warn you of repeating yourself again, lest you sound _forgetful_!"

Elliot didn't goad the thief further. He wasn't stupid; Dark was a man who could hold his own in a fight. Instead, Elliot rushed to explain himself, all-the-while digging through various pockets frantically.

"Even if tha didst git an answer frum knockin' at th' door, I doubt tha'd be welcomed within. And since I also doubt that thee came all th' way just to stand on Krad's stoop, I 'appen we should break in first, _n'then_ find th' lad," he said.

Surprise once again played across Dark's features. "Break in?! Good heavens, man—if anything warranted unwelcome, it would be that! Shouldn't we enter properly, as men, and not force entry as thieves would? I dare say that Krad has had enough of people like _me_…"

Elliot shrugged. "If thee feel's we munst, then we waint. I really wo'nt plannin' to anyway—I have th' key."

Dark was flabbergasted. "A key?! By God, a key! Why didn't you tell me before?!"

Elliot let a grin show. "Tha's easily chuffed, gaffer. I dursn't mention it, fer I thought such a thing warranted no mentionin'. After all, I did tell thee I wo a manservant, did I not? Why wouldst, then, I _not_ have th' key to the servant's quarters?" And with this, he gave a little noise of satisfaction, for he had finally rummaged around in the right pocket. He procured from it a broad metal key, rusted from age and dulled from use.

Dark immediately snatched it away. "Excellent!"

Elliot made an unsuccessful attempt to take it back. "Give't back! Tha'd be my key, not yourn!"

Dark held it away from the slightly-shorter man, a playful grin on his face. "Oh, don't be so childish, man. I'll give it back once its done its duty."

Elliot gave up for the moment, sulking back to Dark's side. "Murdy pincher," he mumbled angrily.

As Dark secured his stolen property, chuckling at his companion's brooding, the two passed that invisible interface between surrealism and realism—now, suddenly, the Hikari manor really did loom ahead of them; a lighthouse beacon in a stormy sea of black fog and gloom. A somber silence fell on the pair, and suddenly neither of them wanted to take a single step further.

They loitered across the street from the place, hearts racing and valor fading, waiting for the other to move first and restore their courage. As they skulked by the entrance, Dark couldn't help but personify the house, and his ruminations were enough to glue his feet to the cobblestone steadfastly. He observed the many, flashing white windows, side-by-side and leering at him like the teeth of a feline predator, and he felt like a small mouse, about to be gobbled up. Really he was making it much more terrifying than it needed to be—for in truth, what was to be more feared? A silent, stationary house with all its brick and mortar—or what lay within it?

Elliot, for better or worse, interrupted his thoughts with an awkward clearing of his throat. "If we're to be goin' then I suggest we git goin' while the goin's good. _Unless _tha's plannin' to spend th' night here … in which case I'd be takin' me key and leavin' thee now …"

Dark shook his head, half at Elliot's threat to leave, and half to free his mind from its terrifying invention.

"No. Let us be on our way, then," he sighed, and took a brave stop forward, over the gutter and onto the street. As predicted, once one of them summed up the courage to take that first step, the other fell into stride, and before either of them knew it the great house impended before them.

They both took pause, straining their necks to look the manor in its broad, imperturbable face. Elliot let his eyes wander over the familiarity with past regrets and looming dread, succumbing to Dark's earlier fear of the unknown, of the dragon that lay in wait for them. He let out a low, trembling whistle, and muttered, "Lardy-loo … it's been a score o' years since I wo here last …"

Dark, gulping, let his satirical side take over. "Well, let's hope you at _least_ remember where the servant's entrance is …"

And so speaking, Dark took the final step towards his destination; the ultimate foot forward that put a close to his life of the "then" and an open to his life of the "now" ... that final step, as true and unshakeable as fact, that led him to his future.

* * *

**This story is as unpredictable as the weather ... so I will no longer make any attempts to dictate when it ends. I'll just go with the flow, and when it ends, it ends. :)**

**Please leave a review; this was incredibly taxing to write and I would like some compensation. (only a little one, pleeease?) lol :) thanks!**


End file.
